


You Will Know Him (When You See Him)

by irisbleufic



Series: Delicate, Dangerous, Obsessed [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Acts of Kindness, Canon Compliant, Coincidences, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Gotham City Police Department, M/M, Missing Persons, Mother-Son Relationship, Other, POV Edward Nygma, Parallels, Police, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Random Encounters, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 03:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12004431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: Edward swallowed hard, eyeing Bullock up and down.  “But who's going to help?  She's so...loud.”“Maybe you oughta make yourself useful,” Bullock suggested, shoving past him.  “Calm her down.”[Readable as stand-alone or part ofDDO/WYFIR 'Verse; set pre-canon.  I blamethis comment-thread brainstorming.]





	You Will Know Him (When You See Him)

Six weeks on the job, and Gotham City Police Department was already the most stimulating environment Edward had ever experienced. He'd heard from the archives specialist—Retta Hagen, about to retire at seventy-two—that their first-choice candidate had turned down the offer.

Edward wasn't supposed to know he'd been their back-up option. And on days like this, with Detective Bullock yakking his ear off about something inconsequential, it rankled _maybe_ just a bit.

“So anyway, I asked her—what's not to like?” Bullock went on, tapping the edge of his desk with a drug-branded pen he'd pilfered from one of the M.E. Department clipboards. “I'll drink your cabinet dry and get you somethin' better!”

Edward lowered the urgent autopsy report, wondering if Bullock had registered a single thing he'd said.

“Words have I many, patience have I none,” he improvised, smiling to hide his disdain. “What am I?”

“Again with the riddles?” Bullock asked, ignorant of the answer ( _an interruption_ ). “Dunno.”

 _Manners_ , Edward thought, lips tightening, snatching the pen from Bullock. _Get some_.

Before Bullock could even castigate him, Alvarez intercepted the next distressed whirlwind to blow in through the revolving door. Edward stepped up to the railing, eyes fixed on the spectacle below.

“Please, Officer, you do not understand!” pleaded the wild-eyed woman, her greying copper-blond hair at _least_ forty-eight hours' worth of unbrushed. “It is my son. He is _missing_.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Bullock muttered, rising from his seat with a portentous huff. “Not this again. I'm out.”

“I don't understand,” Edward said reproachfully, turning to face him, clutching pen and report to his chest. “Missing persons cases are a dime a dozen, sure, but—Detective, they're your _job_.”

“Yeah, and it happens this one landed on Alvarez,” Harvey said, donning his hat. “Not my problem.”

“ _Please_ ,” the woman repeated, more frantic than ever as Alvarez brandished an index finger in her face and...prepared to make a hasty exit, just like Bullock. “You must help me find him, my—”

“Nope,” said Edward, not above schadenfreude as he strode ahead of Bullock. “Alvarez is bailing.”

“Dammit, Nygma,” Bullock hissed, backing Edward up against the _other_ railing now that they were on their way down the nearest stairs. “Move!”

Edward swallowed hard, eyeing Bullock up and down. “But who's going to help? She's so...loud.”

“Maybe you oughta make yourself useful,” Bullock suggested, shoving past him. “Calm her down.”

Edward spent three seconds glaring after Bullock before dashing back up to the detective's desk, slapping down both pen and document. Unencumbered, he retraced his steps, rushing down the stairs.

The detectives' desks closest to the entrance had cleared, leaving Edward nearly alone with their guest.

The woman—dazed now, cheeks streaked with tears—latched onto Edward's forearms before he could even request that she refrain from touching him. She wasn't young, nor was she as old as she looked.

“Um,” Edward said, momentarily overwhelmed by the lily-laden notes of her perfume. “How can I—”

“Young man,” she said, sniffling stoically, drawing herself up to her full height of around five feet and two inches, “you are very, _very_ kind to help me when the others will not. My name is...”

She said it, and Edward's brain spun off the number of spelling possibilities indicated by her accent.

“Gertrud with or without the terminal _E_?” he stammered. “Kapelput with a _C_ or a _K_?”

“Without,” she said, her expression softening, as if shocked that someone had asked. “With _K_.”

“Good,” Edward said tonelessly, regretting the fact he'd left his writing utensil behind. “That's good.”

“That man you speak with up at the top, he is no use,” Gertrud scoffed. “Last time, he did not call.”

“No arguments there,” Edward managed, cracking a taut smile. “You said your son—wait, last time?”

“Yes. Few months ago, he did not come home one night like he promised. Two _days_ I wait!”

Edward did the math on how painfully common, how extremely _banal_ the situation likely was.

“I'm assuming he came home?” he asked, modifying his expression until Gertrud's annoyance subsided.

“Eventually,” allowed Gertrud, guardedly, finally releasing Edward's arms. “I try not to yell at him.”

Hilarious, that Edward still had no clue what the missing person's name, demographic, or age was.

“What's your son's name?” Edward asked, reaching for the nearest notepad on Alvarez's desk. “How old is he?” he continued, fumbling a pen out of the canister. “What does he look like?”

“My Oswald was born in...” Gertrud hesitated, likely preventing herself from saying the year in her native language—which, from the sound of things, might have been German with some unspecified Eastern European influence. “Nineteen eighty-four,” she said. “Oswald Chesterfield Kapelput. Calls himself _Cobblepot_. To make it easy for co-workers in the club, he says. For shame!”

 _He's four years older than I am_ , Edward thought, jotting notes. “He works in a nightclub?”

“Yes, with the fishbone,” said Gertrud, nodding in a manner that Edward could tell she hoped was helpful. “That Mooney woman runs it. So elegant and refined, my Oswald.”

“It sounds like,” Edward said, loath to inform her that elegance was the _least_ Fish Mooney's establishment was known for. “I still don't know what he looks like. Hair, skin, eyes?”

“Very dark. Very pale,” she said in response to the first two, back on-task. “Eyes like mine.”

“Any other distinguishing features?” Edward asked, jotting _dark brown or black / ethnicity, white / translucent greenish blue_. “Length of hair, glasses or other physical aids, scars—”

“Freckles,” said Gertrud, with laughter bordering on tears. “So small you must squint to find them.”

“I have glasses so I don't need to squint,” Edward told her, perfunctorily finishing his notes. “Dress?”

“Only the _best_ collared shirts and suits...” Gertrud misted over and added, “I press them myself.”

Edward nodded, tucking the notepad under his arm and the pen behind his ear. Hesitantly, he took Gertrud by the shoulders and steered her toward the row of chairs usually occupied by suspects.

“If you can just wait right here,” he said, settling her in one of them, “I'll try to get Captain Essen.”

Gertrud took hold of Edward's wrists, startling him into a sound that earned laughter from passers-by.

“Young man,” she said, earnestly searching Edward's gaze, “I do not even know _your_ name.”

“Edward,” he replied, on auto-pilot, disengaging himself from her grasp. “I'm Edward Nygma.”

“While I wait for the Captain, _Edward_ ,” said Gertrud, genteelly, “may I have some water?”

“Oh,” Edward said, smiling again, reverting back to a scripted nod. “Yes, absolutely. That, I can do.”

Edward took the long way around, swinging by Essen's office. She looked neither pleased, nor displeased to see him. Rather than enter when invited, he informed her of Gertrud's location and fled.

In the break room, he found Bullock engaged in conversation with Ms. Hagen, who waved at Edward as he rummaged through the nearest cabinet for a glass. Spotting the question-mark mug he'd brought in for his own use, he latched onto an idea.

Water wasn't what a situation like this required.

Ignoring Bullock's inquiries with regard to what the hell he was doing, Edward made a mess of the tea-bag stash that lived in a rusted Folger's can next to the main coffee maker. Lipton, Tetley, _no_.

“Nygma, I know your break's not for another couple hours,” Bullock said. “What are you lookin' for?”

“Elderflower ginger,” he said, holding the tea bag up for Ms. Hagen to inspect. “Soothing enough?”

“That's thoughtful of you, Ed,” she reassured him. “From the sound of things, Gertrud's awful upset.”

“Thoughtful, check,” Edward said, stripping the bag out of its wrapper and plopping it in his mug. He filled it with hot water from the second coffee maker on his way out, regretting the lack of sweetener.

Essen was already busy questioning Gertrud when Edward returned. She gave him an impatient look, blinking until he realized she was after the notepad still jammed under his arm. He gave it to her.

“Thank you, Mr. Nygma,” she said, taking a step back from Gertrud, scanning Edward's scant notes.

Edward side-stepped neatly, taking her place. He stooped, offering Gertrud the mug with both hands.

“It's hot,” he explained, making sure she had a firm grasp on the tea. “You might want to blow—”

“You will know him when you see him,” said Gertrud, softly, for Edward's ears alone. “ _Danke_.”


End file.
